


Aftermath

by GarudaDreamsOfRain



Category: Sherlock - Fandom, Sherlolly - Fandom
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-07
Updated: 2017-10-07
Packaged: 2019-01-09 23:18:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12286308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GarudaDreamsOfRain/pseuds/GarudaDreamsOfRain
Summary: What happens after that phone call?





	Aftermath

Molly stared at the dead phone in her hand. She noticed she was shaking, but if that was anger, terror or some weird kind of relief, she wasn't quite sure. She was completely mixed up. He had said it. To her. She had said it. To him. But did he really mean it? He'd said she wasn't an experiment, but he was always such a liar. He lied whenever it pleased him, for his own amusement, for a case, on a crazy whim. Why believe him now? Why today? And why had he suddenly hung up with no explanation? Not even a goodbye.

"Damn the man," Molly fumed. Feeling hopeless, hurt, rejected, and furious in equal measure, she stifled a sob. She wanted to throw something, to slap someone. She wanted to curl up in a corner and cry her heart out. She wanted to roar with frustration. A dull, aching cramp spreading in her abdomen brought her back to the moment and why she was in the kitchen in the first place. She threw a rice bag in the microwave and waited for it to heat up while she sipped her tea. It was cold and not really what she wanted anymore. Funny how everything can change in just a few minutes. She poured it down the sink.

Reaching under the counter, she pulled out a bottle of vodka, twisted the lid and took a large swig directly from the bottle. Thoughts, feelings and conflicting, unanswered questions swirled through her mind. She fiercely wiped away the tears that would not stop falling. "You will not make me regret this, you son of a bitch," Molly declared. 

She took another swig from the bottle. The problem with pms, she decided, was that it made her brain too foggy to think clearly. "Look, Molly," she told herself, "you've had a hard day." There was the autopsy on that four year old child, which was so horrible. She'd broken a bottle of chemicals and they had to evacuate the lab while it got cleaned up. Mike had been furious. Then the cramps, and then, to top off everything, that terrible phone call. From him. The love of her life, she sneered to herself. It was awful. What was wrong with her? "I'm going to move on," she vowed for the hundredth time. "No more Sherlock Holmes. He's not worth it." Toby wandered into the kitchen and wound himself around her legs, mewing plaintively. 

"God damn the man!" she said to her cat, who looked as if he agreed. What the hell did Sherlock think he was doing? Calling like that out of the blue. She snorted with a certain satisfaction as she remembered making him say it first. He had said it. And the second time he had sounded as if he meant it. Did he? Could he? Was it possible? 

Was there a chance in hell that this man, this gorgeous man she'd loved with her entire aching soul for seven long years, this infuriating man who scorned all sentiment, could care for her? No, it must have been some stupid bet he'd made with some asshole for kicks. If he and John had been out drinking and were just screwing around she was going to kill both of them. "God damn the man to hell. I'm through with men, Toby," she asserted. "No more."

Molly took another swig of the vodka, shuddering as the alcohol seared her throat, but then smiled as the friendly, relaxing burn hit her stomach and began to course through her veins. Ah, that was better. Maybe she could drink herself into oblivion. She was off work tomorrow anyway. That would be fine, and a perfect end to this entirely regrettable day. The microwave beeped. Molly extracted the comforting rice bag, grabbed a spoon and a half empty pint of strawberry ice cream, tucked the vodka under her arm, and trundled off to bed.

She awoke hours later to the sound of someone vomiting in her bathroom. Someone male. Of course. Who else could it be? She checked the clock: 3:47 am. Sitting up with a sigh, Molly frowned and rubbed her brow. What the hell? He was probably experiencing the after effects of a bender of some type. Maybe with that junkie friend of his. Wiggins. She got up and padded into her bathroom, ready to start yelling at him. She'd throw that bastard out. Show him she wouldn't be trifled with.

The words died in her throat as soon as she saw him. Sherlock was crumpled on the floor by the loo, his arms around the bowl, his Belstaff discarded in a strangely sad heap on the tile floor. He looked terrible. His shirt was muddy and wrinkled, the shoulder was slightly torn and there was a greenish smudge of something on his cheek. Pale and sweating, with dark circles under his eyes, he looked at her and attempted a wan smile. "Oh, hello Molly," he drawled. He seemed about to say something else, but another wave of nausea hit him and he bent over the bowl. 

Molly grabbed a flannel from the cupboard and ran it under the cool tap. She knelt by his side and wiped his face gently. He pushed her hand aside and bent over the loo again, retching pitifully.

"Stop that, Sherlock," Molly said softly. "You've got the dry heaves. Nothing's coming up." He sat up and leaned crookedly against the wall, supporting himself on one trembling arm. He swallowed hard and gamely tried to calm the bile rising from the pit of his stomach. She applied the wet flannel again, chasing the sheen of sweat off his face. He closed his eyes and made a small, vulnerable noise that went directly to Molly's heart.

"Sorry about this, Molly," he ventured, opening his eyes and looking at her. He waved his hand around, unsteadily. His eyes were glazed and slightly unfocused. "Sorry about that." Was he referring to the phone call? She wasn't sure. "Couldn't be helped. It all just...sort of...hit me on my way over here. I came as soon as I could."

Molly had no idea what he was going on about. She wrinkled her nose. "Sherlock Holmes, you smell like a swamp." She scrubbed at the spot on his cheek. "Is that algae?" 

"Been in a well," he answered cryptically. "You should smell John!" he said and began to laugh hysterically.

"Are you high?" she asked.

"No," he answered, calming down and looking her in the eye. There was a different tone in his voice and she instantly knew he was telling the truth. "I kind of wish I was. I'm as sober as a judge, although I'm not sure why judges in particular have such a reputation for being sober. I've known quite a few who were complete lushes," he rambled. "Judge Farness, he sat on the case of Pendleton the poisoner, and you could smell..."

"Yes, alright, Sherlock," Molly said, cutting him off. "I don't need to hear any of that. Can you stand up?"

He tried getting up, but failed and collapsed against the wall. "Not yet," he confessed. "I don't know what's wrong with me." He looked at her, eyes blurry and confused, his words starting to slur. "It shouldn't have happened. I won. I saved you, Molly. I beat the east wind and saved you. But she said I didn't." He began to laugh again, bitterly this time. Then he trailed off, closed his eyes and started to groan.

Molly couldn't understand what he was ranting about. Something was terribly wrong and he was scaring her. All she knew was she had to get him on his feet. She had to get him to do something. Something normal. She loaded a toothbrush with toothpaste and handed it to him. He brushed his teeth, and then hauled himself to his feet with difficulty and spit in the sink. She noticed he was shaking and wobbly on his feet.

"Come on, Sherlock," Molly said, putting her arm around his waist and guiding him into the kitchen. He sat down heavily on a barstool, and she placed a firm, professional hand on his forehead. "You're running a fever. When was the last time you ate anything?" 

"I dunno," he responded, putting his head down and pressing his cheek against the cold granite countertop. "Yesterday, I think. Day before? Before Sherringford, at any rate." His voice was deep and groggy. "This feels nice."

"I'm going to make you some eggs and toast and you're going to eat them. Slowly," she instructed. "And then you're going to tell me what's going on. Okay?" 

"Mmmhmm," was the only response she got. There was a long pause while Molly moved around the kitchen, fixing his food. Just as she thought he'd fallen asleep, his voice, softer than usual, cut through the silence. "Molly, I'm so tired," Sherlock said. 

He was sitting up now, his hands in his lap, shoulders slumped, watching her cook. There was something in his voice and posture that was new; he sounded like a little boy. Molly's heart nearly broke as she gazed at him. He looked so guileless, so vulnerable. What could have happened to put him in this state? What was Sherringford? 

She put the plate of food in front of him and pulled up a barstool next to him to sit on. He picked up the fork and began to toy with his food. "I'm not really hungry," he said.

"Nonsense," said Molly, firmly. "You're so messed up you don't know what you need. Eat."

He obediently ate a bite of scrambled eggs, swallowed and sighed, nodded his head, and suddenly began to wolf down the food. Two minutes later he pushed the empty plate away. "That was good," he said. 

Sherlock turned toward her, sitting just a few inches away from him, her face soft and understanding. He looked at her for a few moments, and she could see a level of something in his eyes she'd never seen before. Was that kindness? Regard? Was it...love? Mollys stomach flipped over and hope surged in her heart. Suddenly, Sherlock reached out and cupped her cheek in his large, warm hand. She covered his hand with her own, turned her head slightly and pressed a kiss into his palm. 

"You've been crying," he stated. She nodded. "Because of me?" 

"Yes, Sherlock. Because of you." He cast his eyes down at the floor and had the grace to look ashamed.

"Molly...I...need to talk to you. I understand if you never want to see me again, but I need to talk to you. It was never supposed to happen like that. I never meant... It was Eurus. She made me...I mean I wanted to, I wouldn't have if I didn't, but..." He trailed off again, looking lost, not knowing where to begin. Not knowing how to begin.

"Sherlock, I can't understand what you're talking about. Let's go sit on the sofa, and then you can tell me. You'll be more comfortable there and you can tell me. You can tell me everything. Anything, Sherlock. You can tell me anything." Molly got up and led him to the living room where they sat side by side on her sofa. He was quiet for a long time. She took his hand, interlaced her fingers with his, and patiently waited.

Sherlock spent a few minutes studying their hands and the way they fit together, as if he had never seen anything like it before. Finally he raised his eyes and looked at her, completely defeated by her generous heart, by her unassailable kindness. He smiled crookedly, wryly; the great Sherlock Holmes, overwhelmed by love and grateful at long last for the power of that ultimately humbling sentiment.

"Molly. Can I hold you? Please?" His voice broke as he asked her. In wordless response, Molly moved into his lap and wound her arms around his neck, twining her fingers in his curls and holding him tightly. His arms went around her in a strong embrace, nearly crushing the breath out of her. She could feel the tension in his biceps against her arms as he gripped the back of her t-shirt in his fists, clutching onto her for dear life. It seemed to her he might never let go.

She made soothing sounds as she stroked his hair. "Bad day, was it?" she joked, and immediately regretted it as she felt his shoulders begin to shake and realized he was sobbing. He clung to her as the tears coursed down his cheeks. "Sherlock," she said softly. "What do you need?"

He pulled away and looked her in the eyes. "You," he whispered. "Always you." He buried his face in the crook of her neck, took a deep sigh, and then it all began to tumble out of him. Incoherent, mumbling, sometimes quickly, in slow, disjointed pieces at other times, he talked and talked.

He told her about Eurus and her evil bargain with Moriarty, about the cold, stony gray vastness of Sherringford, and about the governor and his wife, the blood and the panicked desperation that had enveloped them all, about the Garrideb brothers, and about the greedy sea that had swallowed them up on the wicked and terrifying whim of his sister. He spoke about the little girl on the plane, about the childhood he could barely remember, about his poor, mad sister's misguided jealousy and revenge.

He talked for a long while about John's steadfastness, his goodness, his help and his time in the well. He talked for even longer about Mycroft; he spoke with wonder and raw anger about his brother's secrets, his lies, his experiments, his usury, as well as his noble, mocking, attempted self sacrifice and his well-meaning but ultimately harmful attempts to do his best for Eurus and the family. He told her about Redbeard, about Victor, about his loss, his hurt, his confusion, his wanting to do right, to help if he could, and about how all his lousy, failed attempts had ended in disaster. 

And finally, he told her about that phone call, how he never wanted it to be like that, and how he had meant it without knowing that he had meant it. 

It was a dizzying blur of words and emotions that filled Molly's heart until she overflowed and her tears fell to mingle with his. No wonder he'd been sick and rambling when he arrived. He'd had more than enough to test the strongest of men. He'd been through literal hell and emerged. Victorious, yes, but this win was shot through with impenetrable loss, heartbreak, and sadness.

And then, purged of the grief, calmly and quietly, he told her he loved her. He needed her. He never wanted to be parted from her again in this life. And when he stumbled to a stop as the dawn light began to spill into the room, there was a deep silence between them.

"Molly," he said, simply and without hope or expectation. "Can you ever forgive me?" 

She looked at him, smiling gently. All the love she'd kept locked in her heart flooded towards him in great waves, finally, completely, and forever. "Look out the window, Sherlock," Molly said as she bent to kiss him passionately on his perfect lips. "It's a brand new day."


End file.
